


Of Wine and Wishing

by OverMyFreckledBody



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Experimental Style, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Mentioned One-Sided Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski, Mentioned trauma, Past Relationship(s), Post-Season/Series 02, Stream of Consciousness, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 14:57:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17603483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverMyFreckledBody/pseuds/OverMyFreckledBody
Summary: They need some time to relax and not deal with the things they've been having to deal with since the whole shitshow started. Lydia's idea of that is some wine and girltalk.--Prompt List: 11. things you said when you were drunk.& bonus 17. things you said that I wish you hadn't.





	Of Wine and Wishing

**Author's Note:**

> [From this prompt list](http://glompto.tumblr.com/post/116789043953/send-me-a-ship-and-one-of-these-and-ill-write-a), which I used when [I wrote my Jydia fic a long time ago](archiveofourown.org/works/14872116).

                Allison doesn’t like being drunk. She doesn’t like the feeling of not being in control of herself. She doesn’t like when someone else twists her around however they want like some kind of puppet; when she’s inebriated, it’s much of the same. That party with the wolfsbane punch was the first time she ever had more than a buzz and after that… she couldn’t stand anything with alcohol.

 

                She and Lydia are opposites in that regard, apparently. Not that Lydia is the type to get wasted often. It’s much of the opposite, actually. She doesn’t drink more than enough to blend right in at parties, especially not her own. When she’s alone, however, it’s different.

 

                Or, alone with Allison, that is. It’s just the two of them, with Lydia’s mom (who is, unsurprisingly, an alcoholic, even if she hides it behind a smile, some cash, and much deflection – skills that appear to run in the family) out… somewhere. Allison doesn’t know where that would be and Lydia doesn’t seem to know either, but Allison is pretty sure that she didn’t even bother to ask.

 

                Whatever the case, it’s the two of them and a bottle of wine. There’s two glasses, but only one of them continues to get drained and refilled; the other remains untouched. Allison told her that she doesn’t like to drink, but Lydia only slowly looks her over, pushes out her lips in a very subtle, slight way, and says, “More for me, then.”

 

                Allison stares back at her without saying anything, just like she does many times when Lydia does this, puts up her _could I care less? I just don’t know_ front. It takes but a few seconds for Lydia to relax and look away as she tips a little more into her glass with a shrug. “You don’t have to have any. I just want to chat.”

 

                “Alright,” Allison replies, stretching out onto Lydia’s bed after she carefully sets aside “her” wineglass. She’s propped her head up on her hand to watch Lydia very carefully avoid looking back at her. It’s a thing Allison has noticed a lot with Lydia. She doesn’t like looking at anyone when she is vulnerable, and if she’s not looking at something in particular, she’s staring off into space, her words coming out of her unfocused and otherworldly like she’s possessed.

 

                Unless, of course, her vulnerabilities are also her weapons. Those, like anything else she has uses to fight with, are said with laser-focusing eye contact.

 

                “What about?”

 

                Lydia corks the bottle and sets it next to Allison’s glass as she takes in a deep breath. Her expression and the forced ease in her movements make it seem like she’s very nonchalant, but Allison sees the way she presses her lips tightly together, the way her eyes bounce around the room before she too lays herself out. Then, like the wonderful actress she is, she is suddenly fine as she tilts her head to face Allison. “Anything other than the stuff trying to kill us right now.”

 

                Allison finds herself smiling at the performance, but she says nothing about it when she nods in acquiescence, an easy _whatever you want_.

 

                It’s clear that Lydia knows what she’s doing, but other than a long look as she takes a sip of her wine, she doesn’t say anything about it either.

 

* * *

 

 

                “What do you wish?”

 

                The question comes out of nowhere, especially when the most recent thing said was something about shoes. Or, out of fashion shoes. Lydia has so many of them, and Allison quite honestly likes most of them, so she doesn’t really get why Lydia says she will never wear some of them again. It was fascinating to hear her talk about them, though, and even better to see her try a few on as she spoke.

 

                Yeah, especially when she’d put on the glossy, red heels and Allison could freely watch the way her nails flicked through the motions. That was certainly nice.

 

                “What do you mean?” Allison asks as she rolls over to get a better look at her friend. “When I see a shooting star?”

 

                Lydia shakes her head, which she now has near hanging off the bed, and gestures vaguely towards the ceiling. She had her glass in that hand, but it was closer to empty than it was full – and for the first time during the whole night, she wasn’t moving straight to refill it – so nothing was in danger of spilling. Once she finishes that last little bit, Allison thinks its time to switch to water.

 

                “What do you _wish_? Meaning in an overall, general kind of way. You wish for something, wish something happened, wish something _didn’t_ happen…”

 

                That’s a loaded question. She expected nothing less from Lydia, who pushes the boundaries on everyone, but then steps back before the consequences can touch her, always with a faux innocent look on her face. It blends surprisingly well with the calculating, recording she will have in her eyes as she tracks each little detail about whatever reaction she gets from her prodding.

 

                Still, a question like that one tends to have a lot of answers.

 

                First thing that comes to mind, obviously, is that she wishes her mom was still alive. She also wishes she wasn’t so easy to play around with, naïve. There is a type of people that she attracts because of that – her simplicity, how easy it is to deceive and trick her. There are always people who will use her, who will mold her, who are smart, or sneaky enough to bend her just the way they want her to.

 

                Lydia is that type of person. That much is easy enough to tell. But no matter how many times Allison has looked over past interactions, she… she can’t see any time Lydia’s been able to pull the wool over her eyes. And she doesn’t really try to, either, in any way like her parents did, her grandfather, Scott.

 

                Lydia is a person who will point people where they need to go and let them go off and do it themselves. She doesn’t change them, but watches them, how they interact, react, like every little thing that people do is something interesting to her, even if she finds it beneath her. She doesn’t hide things, either, not things that are anybody’s business but her own. She might keep her own hidden facets buried under makeup and a short dress, but she doesn’t lie in ways that hurt. She’ll lie, maybe, but in ways that are easy to notice, _especially_ if they can be noticed. It’s another way to poke, to see if the subject will be dropped because she wasn’t honest; if she’s poked back, she caves.

 

                At least, she caves for Allison. Whether or not she caves for anybody else, Allison doesn’t know. Sometimes… sometimes it feels like Lydia _wants_ her to poke. She wants to spill everything she doesn’t say, but she doesn’t until she knows Allison is vested in whatever it will be. She wants those hidden, secret parts of herself to be _wanted_ to be heard.

 

                Allison can understand that. It’s why she doesn’t mind that Lydia can be that type of person. Lydia is just as transparent as she is opaque, a paradox. It suits her.

 

                There are so many other things that Allison could wish for. Wish about. Wish had happened, or didn’t, or would, or wouldn’t. She wishes that they will all be safe. She wishes she didn’t miss her murderer of an aunt. She wishes Scott would stop sending her those heartbroken looks. She wishes that the guilt would be replaced with anger, because that’s easier to deal with. She wishes she didn’t feel anything at all. Or at least, nothing negative, nothing like what she feels outside of Lydia’s bedroom.

 

                Because inside of her room? With the wine and the talk and the way Lydia runs her hands through her pretty, strawberry waves and sighs… the air is softer, easier to take in, not as harsh on her lungs. She can breathe in here, and there are moments where she does… she _wants_ – she wants…

 

                …she wants to comb her hair through Lydia’s hair, right after her own fingers.

 

                …she wants to kiss away the spot of red that Lydia’s tongue misses when it swipes over her red, red lips, even if the wine tastes like vinegar and rotten grapes.

 

                …she wants to _breathe_ again.

 

                Here, she is reminded that things can be simple, can be easy. That life does have pockets, where things may not stop, but they can pause, they can slow down. She has time to catch up, if she finds the right place and moment to try.

 

                Lydia is still waiting on a response, even if she is patient. Allison has a choice, where she can say something like _I wish I had a red velvet cupcake right now_ and cheapen the moment, or she can say a piece of everything she’s been thinking now instead. It isn’t as if she believes that Lydia will judge her – not tonight, not like this, not now. Still, there are some things that are just too much, too hard to say without entirely too much effort.

 

                Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Lydia observes her silently, eyes hooded but catching every little movement, everything not said, but she doesn’t push Allison.

 

                No, she does not try to pull an answer out of Allison. All she does is tenderly reach forward and, with gentle fingers, brushes a strand of hair out of Allison’s face. She does not move her hand after she does so, only resting it on Allison’s cheek. It is warm and soft, delicate, like everything Lydia is, but isn’t: another paradox.

 

                Lydia’s gaze slowly moves from watching her own hand back to catching Allison’s own. In her chest, Allison’s heart has started to pound and she’s sure that it will be somehow felt in her face – that or the heat that has to be rising. There is no way she cannot be flushing at this.

 

                Embarrassment, or no, Lydia does not seem to mind. Not when she says, bringing with her words a sense of gravity, “ _I_ wish…”

 

                She presses her lips together again, but while she does not quite look away from Allison’s face, her eyes dip downwards. She licks her lips, and Allison’s breath hitches, before she starts again, her voice a croaky whisper, “I wish he never told me that he loved me.”

 

                _Jackson?_ Allison wonders, brows furrowing in confusion, but she does not get a chance to say anything before Lydia is continuing.

 

                “He doesn’t even _know_ me. He’s always thought he has, just because we had classes together and he always followed me around. He just thinks he does, and maybe he feels like he should, or something, but he doesn’t. He’s never seen me cry, not before _that night_ , and he doesn’t know a thing about my parents. He’s never seen my room. He’s never woken up from one of my nightmares. He doesn’t know me.”

 

                She looks directly at Allison after this last part, and Allison feels like there is a very special, unspoken piece that goes unsaid. A _not like you_.

 

                Allison reaches up and wraps her fingers around the wrist of the hand on her cheek. The hand twitches, like she’s expecting Allison to pull her away, but Allison only tilts further into the palm, silently telling Lydia to go on.

 

                “I wish he said anything else. Because it’s normally so easy to just ignore, but that? What does he know of love, if he thinks _he_ loves _me_? It makes me so _angry_ , and I want to laugh at him, or – or get a restraining order. So he can never come near me again, can never give me little, purple flowers, never kiss me, never make me bring him back – ”

 

                She stops again, this time abruptly. Her eyes are wide. Her lips are pressed so thin that they are white. Allison knows that this isn’t about Jackson. It isn’t even about Stiles anymore.

 

                Or, it is, in a way. It’s about them, too. Because Allison isn’t the only one who’s been used.

 

                Allison shifts forward. Using one hand to take the wineglass from Lydia’s fingers and sets it aside. Using the other, she pulls Lydia, who has started to shake, into her lap and against her chest. Lydia’s own hands come into action quickly, curling into her shirt, bunching it up on her sides. Her head rolls into the spot between Allison’s shoulder and neck, where her breaths are wet and hot against Allison’s skin. It sends shivers along her entire spine. She ignores them to focus on rubbing soothing circles into Lydia’s back.

 

                “I wish,” she murmurs into Lydia’s soft hair. This is what Lydia needs and it is not a cheapening of the moment. Not now, not after that. “I wish I could show you France. I’m sure you’d like the language, the food, the people. Everyone does. But I wish I could show you the sun, the way it hits every building and the way it steals your breath if you let it. I wish I could show you the color of the water from the bridges, the way the reflection of the sun sparkles like some kind of glass. I wish I could show you the lights, how the city is just as beautiful at night as it is during the day.”

 

                She knows her hands stutter on this next part, but she pushes through it anyway. Some things deserve to be said, no matter how hard they are to get out.

 

                “I wish I could show you the reason they call Paris the city of love.”

 

                There is a whisper of a kiss pressed to her neck, then. It could as easily have been an accident, or just mistaken for what it wasn’t. Even with those thoughts, warnings in mind, Allison still bends down and presses her lips to the top of Lydia’s head.

 

                They stay like that, for a long while – long after Lydia has stopped shaking, her fingers now flirting with the bottom of Allison’s shirt rather than wrapped in it. In fact, they stay wrapped up together through the whole night.

**Author's Note:**

> document title: "can i get some fuckin uhhhhh fries with my angst pls"


End file.
